"Five miles of red sand," said Naab. "Here's what kills the horses.
Getup."
There was no trail. All before was red sand, hollows, slopes, levels,
dunes, in which the horses sank above their fetlocks. The wheels
ploughed deep, and little red streams trailed down from the tires. Naab
trudged on foot with the reins in his hands. Hare essayed to walk also,
soon tired, and floundered behind till Naab ordered him to ride again.
Twilight came with the horses still toiling.
"There! thankful I am when we get off that strip! But, Jack, that
trailless waste prevents a night raid on my home. Even the Navajos shun
it after dark. We'll be home soon. There's my sign. See? Night or
day we call it the Blue Star."
High in the black cliff a star-shaped, wind-worn hole let the blue sky
through.
There was cheer in Naab's "Getup," now, and the horses quickened with it.
Their iron-shod hoofs struck fire from the rosy road. "Easy, easy--
soho!" cried Naab to his steeds. In the pitchy blackness under the
shelving cliff they picked their way cautiously, and turned a corner.
Lights twinkled in Hare's sight, a fresh breeze, coming from water,
dampened his cheek, and a hollow rumble, a long roll as of distant
thunder, filled his ears.
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